Page 27 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

For some reason, though, this feels different. I feel like there’s some invisible force drawing me closer to Poppy, urging me to offer my assistance to her beyond renovating her cottage.

“Are you sure, Joe?”

For first time since we met, Poppy looks nervous. Almost sheepish. This woman, who answered the door on that first morning wearing a pink satin robe and diamonds, has been reduced to a fidgeting creature with uncertainty in her eyes. Nobody should ever be made to feel that way, to be reduced to something smaller than what they really are because of someone else’s intimidation.

And it’s not that I don’t believe Poppy can’t handle this herself. Obviously, she’s been handling it on her own for the past year.

But if I can help—if I can end it once and for all—I know that I want to do what I can.

“I’m sure,” I tell her. “It’s not a big deal. I mean, I’m no actor, but it can’t be that difficult to convince that idiot we’re together.”

Poppy laughs softly. “Have you ever been someone’s fake boyfriend before?”

“Haveyouever been someone’s fake girlfriend before?”

“Nope. But, like you said, how hard can it be?”

I shrug. “I guess we’ll find out.”

She takes a step toward me, that blush still making a pretty home for itself on her lovely cheeks. “There’s just one thing…”

“What?”

“If you were really my boyfriend, I definitely would have posted something on my Instagram about it already.”

“Oh. Right.” I’d almost forgotten social media exists. I don’t touch it. Not because I’m against it; I just don’t have much interest in it.

“Nothing tacky,” Poppy clarifies. “Just something subtle to, I don’t know, like, signal I’m taken. In a classy way.”

She slips her phone out of a pocket on the side of her leggings that I hadn’t even noticed was there.

I guess we’re really doing this. Right now. I glance over my shoulder, up toward the second floor, but the guys are still preoccupied with their duties. Or, at least, they’re doing a really good job of pretending they are.

“Okay,” I say to Poppy. “Whatever you need. I’m not exactly photogenic, though.”

She playfully rolls her eyes, as if I’m telling a joke. “No, don’t worry. Your face won’t be in it. In fact, it’s best if we try to protect your identity as much as possible.”

Because she’s not just any beautiful young woman with a bunch of adoring and curious internet followers.

She’s Poppy Minton. A rock-and-roll princess. A legend’s daughter.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” I answer.

“Follow me,” she says, leading the way across the foyer and down the wide hall that ends with the wide glass doors leading out toward the beach.

I step outside with her, the salty breeze ruffling my hair. She has her phone in one hand and is holding out her other toward me, palm up.

It takes me a second to realize she wants me to hold her hand. Swallowing hard, I place my palm on top of hers and entwine our fingers. I almost feel like I should apologize for how rough my callused skin must feel against hers, but she simply smiles and lets our clasped hands dangle between us.

I stand there, watching in silence as she angles her phone to snap a photo of our hands, the grassy sand dunes whispering in the breeze behind us. When she’s satisfied with the picture, she slips her hand out of mine and starts tapping away on the screen.

I wait. I’m not really sure what to do with my hands now, so I shove them back in my pockets. I seriously hope none of the guys are peering down at us from the second-floor windows.

“Okay, perfect!” Poppy exclaims.

She turns her phone toward me.

A jolt of surprise strikes me hard. The photo looks so…romantic. It’s something about the artistic angle of the lens, the filter she used, and the simple white heart emoji she arranged in the corner.

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